


Kevin's Heaven

by winchysteria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, and it just sort of happened, i got sad about 9x09, i have a lot of kevin angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/winchysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 9x09 dribbling that ignores all established canon about heaven because I have a pathological need for Kevin to be happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kevin's Heaven

Kevin’s heaven is comfortable. Cheery, even. He wakes up on Star Wars sheets stretched over an absurdly large, springy mattress. When he looks around, he finds that he’s on a loft bed overlooking a larger room. It’s all lit up by winter sunlight, the best kind, streaming through several wide windows, but the stick-on stars all over the ceiling (in accurate constellations, he’s satisfied to note) still seem to glow. 

 

He rolls out his neck, which is short a few dozen knots. The constant tension, he thinks to himself, will definitely not be missed. Even his back feels great, like he’s gotten one of those massages he used to fantasize about while he studied for his AP Calculus exam.

It’s too tempting and he feels too healthy and alive to  _not_  to jump right from the sleeping loft to the floor, landing in a Spiderman crouch. Oh, and from this angle the room really takes off. It’s massive, first of all; if he could do cartwheels he’d have space for about ten of them just from one wall to the other. Under that loft bed is a library, small and cozy, walls carved into bookshelves and stuffed absolutely full of a thousand things he’d loved reading and a thousand more he always wished he’d gotten to. (Harry Potter has its own shelf.) Then, on the wall across from the library, there is one of the largest TVs he’s ever seen, more shelves built into the wall underneath it holding what looks like half a dozen gaming consoles, half a dozen computers and a few hundred games that he never knew he wanted to play until he saw them. A laptop, surprisingly ordinary-looking. A cello in a nook in the wall. He smiles for the first time since waking- there’s no sheet music. He really loves that cello when he doesn’t have to use it to ply for scholarships.

Across the room, there are two doors. One leads to a closet, which, pleasantly enough, primarily contains pajamas. The other is a set of French doors that shows the same view as the windows- washed-out sunlight, drifts of snow, a surrounding forest hung with lumps of ice. Michigan winter. He hasn’t seen one in years. 

The whole place is frighteningly familiar, and he’s bewildered until he realizes how much it looks like the bedroom he used to wish for as a kid.

He feels energy building in his arms and legs, the buzzing, golden kind he associates mostly with his old elementary school’s recess bell. It’s irresistible, and he throws open the doors to the yard, bare feet squeaking the way they do against really good packing snow. It’s cold- the gray scrubs he woke up in aren’t exactly outdoor wear, either- but he feels alive in a way that he doesn’t think he’s ever felt. So he laughs with his whole body and performs some kind of stomping tribal dance in the snow. Carried on the giddiness, he makes a snowball and looks around for a target before remembering that there is no one to throw it at.

He suddenly starts to feel the icy ache in his feet and picks his way back to the thick white carpet inside, thinking vaguely of finding boots in the closet that is his and not his. Then he sees.

Four controllers to one XBox. Several chairs in the library. Stacks of coasters on the coffee table in front of the TV. And he is the only one here.

Memories tiptoe back in, of rust and a tablet and weeks alone in a room too small and too dark to breathe. The euphoria from earlier cuts the panic, but he still wavers. There’s certainly more to this Heaven than he’s noticed so far.

He glances around the room, not sure what he’s looking for until he sees an arch in the wall next to the sleeping loft. It leads to hallway peppered with doors. Behind the first, a bathroom, green towels and slightly messy grouting and a bathtub as wide as a soccer goal. Through the second, a kitchen, peanut butter and jelly sandwich already waiting on the counter. Then the third, right at the end, like the door to a hotel room, which he bursts through only to be hit by a wall of noise.

He’s in a biker bar, or at least that’s what it looks like, but cleaner and cozier and more welcoming than any biker bar God Himself could dream up. Everything is gleaming wood and mismatched chairs and yellow light and people. They’re everywhere, laughing, talking over tables, goading each other at games of pool. Most of them don’t look up when Kevin comes in, but brown-haired woman taking an order from the booth closest to him glances over. “Well, hi, honey,” she says with a smile, propping one hand on her hip. “I guess you’re new. I’m Ellen. Welcome to the Roadhouse.”

Kevin, still a little shell-shocked, manages a shaky grin but no words. Ellen clucks at him.

"You know, you look familiar. Hey, Jo," she calls, and a girl a few years older than Kevin trots over, blond ponytail swinging. "He look familiar or what?"

Jo inspects him with an expression copied and pasted from Ellen’s face. “Ooh, he does. Maybe from- hm.”

She pauses, still squinting at him. Ellen purses her lips. “Well, if you’re here, the name Winchester means something to you, am I right?”

Kevin finally reconnects to his vocal cords and croaks out the first thing he can think of: “Um, I’m Kevin Tran.”

Everyone within earshot falls silent, and just as the entire place goes quiet, there is a shout from one of the far tables. "KEVIN?"

He doesn’t immediately register the face of the woman who stands up afterwards, and almost before he realizes who she is, he’s wrapped in a hug so tight he can barely squeak out the one word. “Mom?”

"Oh, my god, Kevin, you’re here," his mother breathed back. She pulled away, clutching his forearms and studying his face in a way so familiar his breath hitched in his chest. "You’re here sooner than I thought. I’m so happy to see you, but god, you’re early."

Kevin could see tears gathering in her eyes and knew they were pooling in his as well. “I know, Mom. But, hey, what are you gonna do, right?” he replied softly.

"So this is your Kevin, huh, Linda?" Ellen’s voice came once more from somewhere behind Kevin’s shoulder. "You’re right, he’s something to be damn proud of."

Kevin turned, one arm still around his mother’s shoulders, to see every patron of the bar watching the scene. There was some gaping and a lot of smiling and a few watery eyes. He felt his mother’s shoulders straighten up under his arm. “Yes, everyone, this is Kevin. Kevin, this is everyone.”

"And by everyone," a stern-looking man in a trucker cap and a bristly beard says, "We really mean everyone. You know the Winchesters and you die, you end up here at some point. That means there’s a lot of us, but thanks to your mother there, we’ve heard  _all_ about you. And if y’all will go back to whatever it is you were doing, I’m sure Linda will get around to introducing you soon.”

He glances pointedly at the crowd of onlookers, who all look somewhat ashamed of themselves and go back to their conversations.

"That’s Bobby," his mother says. "You’ll get along. And you need to meet Sarah. And Mary. And Jess, and Jimmy, and-  _Kevin Tran!_ What are you  _wearing?”_

She looks horrified to note that Kevin is still in the gray scrubs and starts pushing him towards the door. “Go, go, change. When you get back, food. Then I can show you off.”

Kevin grins and shakes his head as he lets her shove him back through the door he came in. “I love you, Mom,” he says, watching the affection shine on her face before the door closes.

"I love you, too, Kevin," he hears her say from the other side.

When he comes back, she doesn’t even mention that he just changed into another set of pajamas.


End file.
